You Taught Me What You Let Fall

For nine long months I grew within a casing;

even then, I sought the mother-thrum.

~

Yet when I was born, you were the permafrost above my crib.

Still as a stone in heart,

yet swift as winter light.

~

Life breaks in parts.

Dad left, then you;

a single salt grain

on the kitchen counter.

~

I see the empty space where you were,

the lone survivor of my frame

in the only picture you own.

I tried to be your peace;

stitching your hem with copper wire.

I failed to heal your spirit;

I failed to heal my own.

~

The mind of a child shrouded the truth;

and as I fell apart,

so it was that I lost you.

~

Do you remember that photograph of me?

Upon the stairs, in shoes of light,

that lit the way to my yellow shirt,

and the glassy bobbles in my hair;

for you knew not the how;

I wasn’t smiling.

You taught me what you let fall.

~

And now, you ebbed even further than before.

You are in his cloisters.

I watch the harvest as he steals

the marrow from your every morrow,

the hollow from your halls,

the rhythm from your heart.

~

You opened the door and let me in.

But now I am tall and a storm is brewing,

yet I am still that little girl

eating frost from your porch.

~

My sister arrived,

but you are still gone.

The violin continues,

but gone is the melody.

~

You have given me life and taught me all you knew;

you held on to my hand when Dad let go.

As you delayed the veil of apathy

just to watch me bloom.

~

You saw your own eyes mirrored in my ring;

it was only then you let me go.

I learned to grow with stark things deep within;

the things you taught didn’t break me.

~

Some day, you will leave body and soul,

and I will be okay.

~

You tended my hair for the prom,

and laughed when the cupboards were bare.

You stayed, because you're earth.

~

The quilt of brown dirt, loaming

may take you in its arms

during the gloaming;

But my whisper will cleave the soil

long after the moon.